


somebody to

by cicadas



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Background Relationships, Conflict Resolution, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M, Roger Has His Eggs Poached For Breakfast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-26 21:17:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18290402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cicadas/pseuds/cicadas
Summary: Relationships within the band were always going to cause strain. Roger knew that from the start. He knew that arguments in the studio would become arguments at home, stretching on until something finally snapped.Standing outside now, smoking his third cigarette with Brian drunk and angry in their shared bed, Roger really wished it hadn’t.





	somebody to

**Author's Note:**

> not set in any era in particular, but i'm thinking around news of the world where their hair is getting shorter and they've got their shit sorted.  
> 

"Right, let's run it again."

 

They'd been in the studio for four hours.

Not the longest stretch they'd done by far, but it was nearing 9pm and they were tired. All of them.

"I'll call, darlings, I'll call it when it's too much, alright? Now let's finish this bloody thing." Freddie said once they hit half an hour overtime, and everyone had just nodded.

Another hour later, the air was getting thicker with the mix of sweat and annoyance from all four of them. Some more than others.

 

"Brian, can you cut the fade-in a little quicker this time?"

John bent to shuffle his lyrics and other papers, and looked up again to find Brian staring at him. He stuck his tongue against his cheek and cocked his hip out a little, his guitar swinging gently with the movement.

"I've cut it shorter, John. It's been cut already."

John sat upright a little straighter from his seat on the drum riser.

"Well, do it quicker this time so we don't have to keep repeating ourselves." He said, and put the papers down. "Now, shall we run through it again, or do you want to do it individually, Bri?"

Brian's lip caught on a scowl and he bit it. Huffed out a breath. Brushed a hair back from his forehead that wasn't there.

"I'll do it individually if you want to waste just my time, but I don't see what the problem was with that last. We should have a listen at least."

"I wasn't happy with it." John said shortly.

 

From his seat behind the drums, Roger's eyes darted between the two men. He could feel an argument under the surface of their words, ready to break out in the next few sentences and send them all into a flurry of shouting for the next while. He wanted to cut that part out completely so they could get back to actually discussing the song and not nitpicking each other's playing just because they were tired.

He made eye contact with Brian, who just stared at him blankly before turning away. Roger felt a tingling of anger in his chest, because he knew that look, and fucked if he was the one going to be on the receiving end of it.

So Roger opened his mouth.

"I think we should just play it again."

 

Two heads whipped to him in an instant.

"Oh, do you Rog?" Brian snapped.

Roger frowned. "Yeah, I do. If Deaks wasn't happy with how he played, then we can run through it once more and call it a night. I'm sure we're all wanting to."

He could feel Deaky's eyes on him, but he didn't dare look over at him. He kept his face neutral, eyes wide. He was meant to be the peacekeeper of this conversation.

"I wasn't unhappy with my playing." John murmured.

"So you were unhappy with mine."

John sighed. "All you've got to do is cut the fade-in at the start of the song, Brian. We agreed we want it to ease in and have that nice flow, and we're not going to get that if we have to make edits with the fucking mixers, are we?" His voice was smooth and even. but John was a river. There were currents underneath his words that would drown any man.

 

From the corner of the room, Freddie spoke up.

"I suggest we call it a night. We have all of Thursday to fiddle around with the finer details and we won't be as bitchy by then." He waved his arm around the studio as if the gesture would shut everything down. "Let's all go, alright?"

John shrugged. "You can head off, Fred. I'll catch up with you at home."

The sentence was gentle enough, but it set Brian off.

"Yeah, you will, won't you. Because you're living together."

"And what has that got to do with anything, Brian? More to the point, when did that become your business to point out?"

Brian rolled his eyes, ignoring the wide-eyed looks Roger was giving him. "We're in a band, John, when are our private lives not each other's business."

The studio door made a clear 'click' as it closed back into place. Roger looked up in time to see Fred give him an awkward wave through the window in the door before he snuck off. Looking back over the room, it seemed the boys hadn't noticed at all.

 

Roger tightened his grip on his drumsticks and stood up.

"Fred's just left."

He said it, and felt like he may as well have told them the fucking weather report with the response he got.

 

"That's great, Roger." Brian said.

The seen of anger that was floating in him stuck in the side of his lung, and Roger fought the urge to hurl both sticks at Brian's head. Instead, he turned to John.

"John, Fred's just-"

"Left, yes, thank you, Roger. I did say I'd see him soon." John didn't even look at him.

"Well, if you're both going to keep fucking staring at each other I'm going to head home as well." He said, his tone clipped in a way that had Brian finally breaking his stare at John to look up at him.

"You're going?" He asked, somehow acting surprised.

It pissed Roger off.

"Yeah, Brian, I am going. I'm leaving, because this is fucking shit. Starting a fight with John isn't going to get this song done any quicker, and making me and Fred feel like we're listening in on a fucking lover's quarrel isn't too swell either."

Brian frowned. John shook his head.

"Roger, you're about to start that exact thing right now, so maybe you  _should_  head off." John suggested.

Roger's skin pricked, his blood hot and face even hotter. "What?"

"You should--"

"No, I heard you, John."

Roger stared at his bandmate, eyes angrier than the ones that looked back at him. He felt a twinge of sympathy for John, then, at his suggestions and tweaks to songs always being turned into rows. But it was cut short when the man opened his mouth again.

"Maybe you should go too, Brian. Take your guitar home. You could practise a little before bed."

The silence that followed was palpable.

"Really, John? You think so? Well, seeing as you're fucking our lead singer, I'm sure it's given you a boost of confidence to suddenly start making decisions, but don't think that means we actually _listen_."

John stood, then, and for a moment he was going to hit him. He stopped himself.

"I could say the same about you." He said cooly.

Brian paused.

"What?"

"Well, you are fucking our drummer, are you not? Does getting a leg over Roger each night make you feel like a big man, Brian?"

 

This time, Roger did throw his drumsticks. Only they weren't aimed at Brian.

The heavier end of one only skimmed Deaky's arm, and the other landed somewhere several metres way, but the intent was crystal clear.

"Fuck you, John."

 

John opened his mouth, but Roger waved his hand out at him.

"I was on your side. This was meant to be about the music. We're a band, for fucks sake! It's always meant to be about the fucking music. We're not doing shirts vers skins in the recording studio, we're recording a fucking album! Who I'm with, or who you're with shouldn't matter. It's never mattered before."

Roger finished, and watched Deaky shift his gaze to the floor, then back up at him. Roger made sure to keep the anger on his face when he did.

"Brian, you kept the reverb on too long. Big deal. Accept that you did it and let us go again. And don't ever say something like that to John again. Ever."

Brian's jaw tightened. "So you're on his side?"

"Jesus Christ, I'm not on anyone's side. You didn't play the note spot on, Bri! That's not John's fault!"

"No, it is. He's changed the start of a song he _didn't even fucking write_ , and I'm not going to keep altering what I play to accomodate his frivolity." Brian spoke.

John clicked his tongue.

"Frivolity." He echoed.

 

Brian said nothing. Roger didn't move. Just watched as John slowly packed up his bass. Put his papers away, rolled up the cord to his amp. He switched it off, and the remaining hum of the room gave way to nothing.

He cast a tired look to Roger before he picked up his case, and made his way to the door.

"I'm off home to go fuck the lead singer, as that seems to be my new job title. If anyone needs me to play bass anytime soon don't bother calling. I might accidentally step out of line and  _speak_."

He said, and then he left.

The studio door didn't slam when it closed, but the 'click' shut was final enough.

 

After several moments, Roger met the gaze he could feel on him.

Brian's eyes were wide with shock, but there wasn't any sadness behind them.

Roger sighed.

"I'm heading home. You can stay here, do what you like. Just don't wake me up when you get in." He said tiredly, beginning to move off the riser.

Brian held his arms out. "Wait--Why am I in trouble? That was just bullshit with John-"

"Don't start, Bri."

"-You didn't even back me up, it's fucking embarrassing. Now I'm in trouble because John's said his piece and walked off, as always, and I've gotta fix everything!" Brian lifted his arms up to gesture around the room, between them. It was like he was trying to convince Roger of what had just happened as if he wasn't right there.

Roger was so fucking tired of it.

"I'm going home, Brian. By myself. I'll see you in the morning." He said, and patted Brian on the arm.

Then he opened the door to the studio, opened it, and let it slowly close behind him.

 

As soon as he heard the latch click into place, he broke into a heaving sob.

If Brian saw him through the window, he didn't care.

 

 

 

-

 

 

Brian arrived home a lot later than Roger thought he would.

He told him to stay out, yes, but Brian had never followed what he'd said during an argument before. He'd always do the opposite, usually, if it meant annoying Roger until they had to properly talk about their argument and form some kind of truce.

This wasn't one of those cases.

Brian stumbled through the door of their flat at half midnight, waking Roger with the sound of his lead feet and repeated dropping of their house keys.

He didn't want to get up. He would, usually. He'd pretend he wasn't sleeping well anyway and make a cup of tea so he could shoot him looks and dance around talking for as long as he could before Brian would be the one to bring it up. Whatever it was. Something he forgot to do, something he did do, something Roger did but wouldn't talk about so Brian went out drinking until it formed a catalyst and they ended up arguing in the kitchen at night.

This seemed different, though, and Roger didn't feel like making excuses. He stayed in bed, and shut his eyes. He pretended to be asleep when Brian made his way into their shared bedroom.

 

"Rog,"

His voice was a loud whisper, telling of how much he'd had to drink.

"Can't find my pyjama pants, Rog."

Roger didn't shift. Just kept his eyes shut and tried not to dwell on what they'd last said to each other.

There was a bump, then a split second before a tinny crash rang out in the echo-y room. (Roger had meant to put fabrics up but he hadn't had time lately to decorate properly). The noise had Roger sitting up instantly, eyes scanning the dark room for whatever Brian had just broken.

"Just some, statue thing Rog, I'll fix it later alright," Brian mumbled. He was able to see without the lights due to his eyes actually functioning at 100%, but his long legs were unsteady with drink, and Roger felt him bump into the edge of the mattress several times before he eventually crawled on top of it.

After a few moments of shifting, Roger felt the duvet lift, and a colder-than-usual body slipped in beside him, automatically fitting into place along his back. He could feel Brian's breath on the back of his neck, through his hair. Long, cold fingers brushed over his arm as they reached forward to grip at Roger's tummy, not pulling him in, but holding him.

Roger was angry, but he let himself be held.

 

"I'm sorry about tonight." Brian whispered.

He sounded more sober than before. Maybe it was the guilt.

"I'm really upset with you, Bri." Roger said quietly.

"I know, and you should be. That wasn't okay, what I said."

Roger made to turn and face him, but it was awkward with him being so close, so he just lifted his head from the pillow so he would be heard.

"To me or to John?"

 

A pause.

"Both of you. Doesn't mean he wasn't out of line, though."

Roger groaned, and this time he did roll over, but it was away from Brian. "Come on. For fucks sake, Bri, when are you going to understand I don't want a bloody apology if it's just gonna be filled with 'oh well he said this so I had a right to be a cunt'?. I was there. I know what John said. But I'm not dating John, I'm dating you, which means I care about what you say."

There was a grunt from behind him.

"What was that?"

Brian sat up, and Roger couldn't see at all with the low light, but he knew Brian was looking at him.

"I said you may as well be. Dating John."

"'Scuse me?"

"Oh, you only take his side in just about every argument. It only makes sense for you two to start shacking up again. I'm sure there's a spare room in his and Fred's house, maybe you three could even--"

"Don't finish that fucking sentence Brian." Roger warned. He stood, feet in his slippers, and ran a hand through his hair rough enough to tug on some strands. "God damn it! I just wanted a good night's fucking rest, and I can't get that with you! Every argument has to tail end off another, go on and fucking on until you're finished with it. I don't want to talk about this! I don't need you being drunk and jealous in the middle of the night cause you can't take criticisms from anyone other than Fred!"

He'd raised his voice, but he didn't care. His smokes were in his dressing gown pocket, so he gathered it from the end of the bed and swung it around his shoulders.

"Where are you going?"

"Out for a fucking smoke!" Roger shouted, and kicked at the bedroom door on his way out.

 

He lit the end on the stove, minding his hair, and let it burn a little in the kitchen just to piss Brian off before he went out on the balcony.

There was a lot he wanted to say to Brian. A lot he did say, when they fought, but never the things he really wanted to bring up. That would involve having to sit down, over the dining table or on the couch, and actually discuss things. He couldn't do that. He'd never learned it, or seen it growing up - even in his late teens he hadn't had a conversation like that with a girl. Never cared or been cared about enough to.

There were things he wanted to say now - niggling thoughts and concerns, words that had been thrown his way that hit a lot deeper and closer to his heart than others did. He often ignored those, and tossed out an insult to retaliate. He was running out of those lately. And Brian was drunk, so the circling thoughts of their argument with John in the studio didn't have a filter to run through. He was still pissed off, and Roger would cop it.

He was tired of it.

 

Hearing the sound of footsteps in the kitchen, Roger lit another smoke off the still-burning end of his last one, and let the inhale sit in his lungs and fester there for a while before he exhaled it into the night.

"Roger?"

Roger didn't want to answer. He adjusted his grip on the cigarette, moving it further up between his fingers, and took another drag. "Not now, Brian."

Brian rounded the corner and found Roger on the balcony, sliding door wide open, letting the heat flow out freely into the night. He opened his mouth slackly. Roger spoke over him.

"I don't want to talk right now. I'm gonna finish this cig, have a cuppa tea, then I'm going to bed. I don't want to go over what happened because you're drunk, and I'm tired." He explained as gently as he could given his mood. He brought the smoke to his lips. Suck, inhale, exhale, a tap to ash it.

"I'm not drunk."

"You're slurring your words and you're swaying. Go to bed, Brian."

"I'm not going to bed like this."

"Like what?"

"Still angry. With you annoyed at me." Brian supplied.

Rog tapped his cigarette a few times, though he didn't need to; his fingers were getting antsy. He sucked on the rest of the cig until he hit the filter, and stomped it with the heel of his slipper. The concrete was still wet from rain earlier on in the day.

"Go to bed, Bri. We can chat in the morning if it's so bloody important to you." Roger caved.

He watched Brian watch him for a while, both of the men simply standing in their respective spots in the house, waiting for the other to do something, say something maybe. But Brian just shrugged eventually, and turned to make his way back to the bedroom on unsteady feet.

Roger stood on the balcony a little longer. Then he flicked the kettle on, and waited.

He stood at the bench staring out at his empty lounge room long enough that he had to re-boil the water.

 

 

 

-

 

 

Brian didn't look at him in the morning.

Things were quietly tense, which meant Brian knew exactly what he'd done, and was mulling over what to do about it. Roger ate his breakfast in silence. Poached eggs and one piece of toast, instant coffee. He hadn't made Brian anything. He seemed to be dead asleep when Roger woke up.

Two bites left on his toast, Roger spoke up.

"Are you going to keep ignoring me like I've done something wrong?" He said, eyes trained on the side of Brian's face where he sat at the opposite end of the table. He wanted to lock eyes with him when he moved his head.

Brian kept looking straight ahead.

"I'm not ignoring you."

Roger put his fork down.

“There’s obviously something you want to say, so say it.”

”I’ve nothing to say,” Brian said, always so eloquently spoken.

Brian still hadn’t met his eye. Roger narrowed his eyes and stared harder.

"Brian, just spit it out. You've been wanting to say something since we fought in the studio last night. Before that, even - every argument we have in there carries over to our house and I'm sick of it. So say what you wanna say and let's be done with it, yeah?"

"Are you sleeping with John?"

 

The question was asked so calmly it didn't register with Roger for a moment.

When it did, his heart dropped.

"What?"

Brian shrugged, seemingly uncaring - though Roger knew that behaviour, and it meant Brian had been thinking about this for a very long time. He was the most upset when he acted like he wasn't at all.

"I asked if you were sleeping with John."

"I heard you.” Roger snapped.

He let his hand unfurl from the fist he’d been holding at his side and ignored the hurt he felt everywhere else. “Brian, how could you ask me that?"

"How could you not say no?!" Brian retorted.

”No! No, Brian, I'm not sleeping with John!"

"Then what is it, Roger? If you're not sleeping with him, what is it about him that has you in his corner every single time we're in the studio? Is it his charming personality? His indignant fucking moods?"

"We're not talking about John here, Brian, we're talking about me and you,"

"That's the thing, though! It's not ever me and you anymore! It's you and and me, then me versus John and suddenly we're not a team anymore!"

Roger sat back in his chair.

"That's what you think?"

"I don't need to think it, Roger, I see it every time we're in the studio."

"And there it is again: studio time.” Roger took a breath. Trying to force a patience into his voice that wasn’t there. “We said we were going to separate shit that happens as a band from what happens between us."

"Yeah, well-"

"Didn't we, Brian?"

Roger looked at him expectantly. Brian was avoiding his gaze, like a child.

"Yes."

"So what's all this, then? What's with accusing me that I'm  _cheating_  on you with our  _best friend?_  All because of who I agree with

"It's not just that, Rog. It's every time. You take his side every time. It's like...It's like you're so ready to jump to his aid, you don't care what it's about. He's criticised your drumming when you spent so long getting a section of a song perfect, and then suggested we take the part out altogether. Your drumming was fucking  _perfect_ , and he wanted it out."

"He's allowed to make suggestions." Roger said quietly.

Brian threw his hands up. "This is exactly what I'm talking about! He doesn't control the band, and he's throwing out wild shit like removing an instrument completely from a song and nobody says anything! If anyone else had told you you shouldn't drum in a song you helped write, you'd tell them to sod off, but with John you just roll over and show your belly! So does Freddie!"

Roger clenched his jaw. He held it for a moment, letting it ache, before he let go.

 

Then he stood, and met Brian's eye.

"I think we should take a break."

 

Brian's stature shifted instantly.

"What?"

"I think we should take a break. Between us."

Roger's heart ached as he forced his voice out of his lungs.

"I'm tired of all this, Bri. The fighting and the jealousy and the 'taking sides'. I didn't want all this shit when we got together, but part of me knew it was going to happen anyway. We work together as a band, but...Maybe we just don't work as a couple."

He could feel the tears pricking back up, stinging behind his eyes, clawing around at the back of his throat, making it hard to speak.

"I really wanted it to work." A tear lay heavy in his eye. He blinked it out. "Truly. But it isn't, Bri. It's not working, and I'm so tired of pretending it is. I hold my tongue whenever you rant about John or whoever has pissed you off in the studio when we're at home, I make you tea and look after you like I'm some kind of housewife, not your friend, or your--your partner. I won't step back into a role when we're at home, and I think that's what you've been waiting for me to do. And accusing me of cheating isn't going to do that. I'm not gonna try to convince you I love you, and I only want to be with you. You should know that already."

Brian swallowed. Shifted. "I do know that."

Despite himself, Roger nodded. He wanted to be mad, telling Brian the things he'd wanted to hide and eventually get over by himself, but instead he felt empty. Empty and sad.

"You asked me if I was sleeping with John because I agree with him about work, Brian. Work. I can't believe you'd--" He took a breath. "Did you ever stop to think maybe that was my opinion? That I don't have to suddenly agree with everything you say just because we're together? I've always liked the edits John makes to my songs. Always backed him up when he was quieter and didn't want to speak up as often. You never had a problem then. Didn't even notice it, then. But now? You're jealous, and it's exhausting.

"Your issue is with him, Bri, not me. I hope you sort it out, because if not the band is gonna suffer because of it." Roger finished. He took his plate to the sink, scraped the excess eggs onto the silver metal, and ran the tap. His fingers darted in and out of the stream as he waited for it to get warm.

"So that's it, then?"

 

Roger was facing away from Brian, but he could tell by the tightness of his voice that he was crying. Or about to.

He turned around, and tried not to soften at the sight of Brian's cheeks tinted pink and wet with tears. He was tall when he stood, but he seemed so small in that moment, his posture crumpled in on itself, arms limply clutching each other in front of his chest.

Roger swallowed around the lump in his throat, but his voice still shook when he spoke. "I'm tired, Bri."

"We can talk about this."

"I don't wanna talk about it. We've tried, and we talk and we talk and nothing bloody changes. I'm sick of talking."

"Then what...Rog, I don't know what to do. What do you want me to do?"

Roger looked over at the man he'd known for years, lived with for years, loved for years, and for once he couldn't bring himself to comfort him. He didn't have the energy left.

 

"I'm going to head out and have a think, and I'll stay somewhere else tonight." Roger said. "I'll see you in the studio tomorrow."

He left his plate in the sink, unwashed.

He said nothing as he made his way around the kitchen, gathering up his things - smokes, lighter, car key, jacket. He had a bag in his room for clothes and other small items, but it felt too dramatic to leave with a pile of things. Like he was making an exit rather than just leaving the flat. He tucked his wallet into the tight pocket in the back of his jeans, and re-laced his sneakers. The pink had faded and a lot of sequins scuffed off at the sides, but they were comfortable to walk the streets in.

When he reached the front door he paused.

Behind him, Brian was standing in the same place, unmoving. Just watching him as he picked himself up and got ready to leave. As if it were all out of his hands, and words had failed him.

But Roger had said himself, words were useless by now.

So he said nothing when he opened the door and walked through it. On the other side, his fingertips pulled the handle until it shut, and it was done.

Roger stepped down from the two concrete steps that led to the door, and felt as if his legs were going to give way with each movement.

He lit a smoke as soon as his feet hit the pavement.

 

 

They took him down Ainsbury Road. Away from the pubs, and the shops, and eyes of strangers. He walked the back roads until he hit the next block of flats, crowded between shrubs and shorter trees that ate up the road signs.

It was a nicer spot, here. Greener. It seemed less crowded than his own street - buildings were still pressed up between each other like they always were, but the ivy snaking up the sides between the two lots of bricks gave them a seemingly wider amount of space. Like nature was trying to find a gap in the mortar to use to force them apart.

Seemed a bit Shakespearean, really.

Roger arrived at the flat he'd walked to so many times before, and lifted his hand to press the buzzer.

 

The door was answered almost immediately.

"Rog! What're you doing here?" Freddie stood in the entryway holding a whisk, frowning at him.

Roger smiled sheepishly, suddenly feeling exposed out on the street, knowing he'd arrived uninvited.

"Hey, Fred. Is uh, is John home?" He asked, leaning a bit to see if he could see him in the flat behind Freddie.

"Oh, yes, he's helping me cook. We're having eggs." Fred flung his whisk over his shoulder. "Did you want to come in?"

Roger shook his head.

"Better not."

"Oh, well, you're welcome to eat with us anytime - our phone does work, too, Rog," Freddie said, leaning forward to poke him.

"I know, I'm-" Roger swallowed, and felt the sudden urge to tell Fred everything that had happened. He settled for taking his Marlboro's out of his pocket and holding them up gingerly. "Have a smoke with me?"

Fred sighed. He cast a glance back into his home, where John was probably fiddling with the stove, humming along to the radio, being sweet and relaxed and domestic the way Roger knew he was when with Freddie. He felt a pang of guilt at interrupting that, but he needed someone. And Freddie was his best friend.

Freddie looked back at him and smiled softly, somehow understanding what Roger never said.

"Of course, Rog."

 

They sat on the front step on the cold concrete just shy of the footpath, door closed behind them, Freddie picking at some dried egg yolk on his nails while Roger lit their cigarettes.

Fred thanked him with a nod when he was passed his, and immediately stuck it in his mouth.

They sat in silence together - gentle, familiar silence - for a good while, just smoking and looking out at the street. Roger half expected a barrage of probing questions from his friend when he showed up at the door at half nine without calling, but it never came. It felt nice, being able to be quiet for a bit.

He waited until his smoke was finished, fingers already tapping the packet to pull out another one, before he said anything.

"Brian and I are taking a break."

He felt Freddie turn to him, but he didn't do the same. Just kept staring straight ahead.

"I told him us being together was putting too much strain on the band, and I left him standing there in the kitchen. By himself. He hadn't even made breakfast yet."

A warm hand came to clasp over his knee. "Rog..."

"I'm fine, Fred." Roger said quickly.

"I've known you for a long time, you know," Freddie smiled at him, eyes sad and sympathetic. "I know all your tells."

Roger let out a breath through his nostrils in the form of a laugh.

"So you keep reminding me."

"Well it's true! Talk to me, Rog. What happened?"

Freddie spoke gently, taking the unlit cigarette from Roger's hands as he did so, lighting it with the glowing end of his own finished one. He passed it back without a word, and Roger raised it to his lips.

"He, uh...He asked me if I was sleeping with John."

 

The hand on his knee tightened its grip a little before letting go.

"He--Why would he ask such a horrible thing?"

Roger shook his head, blowing smoke in a zig-zag pattern as he did.

"I don't know. He doesn't like that I take his side in band decisions. John's side, I mean. If it were his we wouldn't have a problem," Roger laughed bitterly. "I told him I wasn't going to agree with him just because he wanted me to, and I told him we should take a break. Simple as that."

Freddie moved his hand from Roger's leg, shifting so he was facing him square-on.

"I don't think it's as simple as that, Rog."

Roger frowned. "What d'you mean?"

"Well, you remember how we first found Deaky, right?"

"Course I do."

"Well. I'm just saying maybe that factors in to why Brian's a little more...defensive when it comes to him."

"What does-" Roger began, then stopped.

_Remember how we first found Deaky._

Right.

 

 

They had been rooming together, him and Fred, while studying and running the stall at Kensington, working longer to sell more, bring more money home so they could eat.

People constantly flowed through in messy lines, touching their clothes, feeling the fabrics, knocking clothes-hangers together as they shifted them about and eventually moved on. It was a hard, hot, boring slog, working the market. Rog always thought it'd be ten times better if he could chain-smoke through it, but it put off a lot of 'customers', so he kept it down to one or two when things were quiet. If they worked together, Freddie would busy himself re-arranging their hanging fabrics and picture frames and ornate mirrors, making sure it was clean and stylish and up to his standards. He always managed to make their small space look like the inside of a Spanish caravan, and Roger figured without his pedantic nature they wouldn't bring half the people in. Folks liked something pretty to look at.

It was what John had said to him when he met him for the first time.

He'd come out of nowhere, all long hair and angles, flicking through their nicer things - blazers, jackets, silken scarves - with careful fingers.

Roger was bored, and John was interesting, so he started talking to him. Something he didn't often do. He loved his stall, but hated the people that shopped there.

"The patterns are interesting," John had said, gesturing to the woven fabrics that hung up behind Roger.

Rog had turned to see what he was motioning at, then nodded. "Yeah, they're Freddie's, from home. His mum has heaps. You like 'em?"

John had nodded. "They're pretty. Works for a place like this. People like something pretty to look at."

He said it casually enough, but he was looking right at Roger when he said it.

Roger could understand why. His hair was longer, face softer, eyes wide and clothes soft and silky, hanging off his frame in a carefully constructed way. He always put more time into his appearance than anything, aside from music, and perhaps school.

Roger had blushed, and shrugged a shoulder. "Well, yeah, you know. Gotta reel 'em in somehow."

John had smiled at him, and Roger was smitten.

 

He had taken him back to his shared flat a week later. He'd wanted to sooner, but John had always brushed off his attempts at flirting any harder than compliments. He saw him twice after that day at the stall - once around school, and the second time coming out of a pub as Roger was going in. He caught his arm, mumbled something about liking his shoes, and handed him his phone number on a neat rectangle of paper. It was forward, but it was how Roger did things.

John met him at Roger's favourite pub - good music, never crowded, stayed open late - the next night, and they stumbled into his and Fred's flat just shy of midnight.

Freddie had been out on a night of his own, that night, and he didn't often host. Roger remembered telling John as much when they finally kissed, standing by the back of the couch, shoes and coats still on.

Roger took both off John quite slowly, when they got around to it. He was careful, gentle, giving. He gave John special attention and praise he didn't usually give. He used his mouth more, worked his hands slower, held his breath to give John just that extra bit of pleasure. He was a good, solid lay. Nothing more.

The next day John had sheepishly admitted he wasn't looking for a relationship, but thanked him for a 'great lay', and they laughed, and fell into conversation easily. Roger invited him to stay for breakfast, which Freddie would usually bring home in the form of a few eggs and some fresh bread, and John had shrugged his shoulders and taken a seat at their small table. Fred adored him instantly, and once he found out John played bass, that was it. There was no letting him go.

Roger didn't think it was that big a deal that he'd slept with him.

It was once, and they were firm friends now, and they got the final member of their band out of it.

Brian had asked him about it once, when they first got together, but Roger brushed it off. It wasn't anything to worry about, so he wasn't going to spend hours discussing it. It was something that happened, and it happened once.

 

Thinking about it now, Roger could see what Fred was hinting at.

He's brought back to his current conversation by the end of his cigarette beginning to burn at his fingers, so he drops it on the concrete. He doesn't bother stomping it out. Doesn't reach for a fresh one.

"If it were me, darling, I'd be a little on edge, too." Freddie says gently.

Roger scoffs. "On edge? He's not on edge, he's an idiot."

"No, Rog, think about it. If I were Brian, and I knew my boyf-"

Roger gave him a look.

" _Partner_ ," Freddie corrected, "Had slept with another member in the band, and when it came to making decisions sided with him every time, without fail, I'd be a little upset too."

"He's not upset, Fred, he thinks I'm fucking him." Roger said bluntly.

"Sorry." He threw in as an afterthought.

Fred shook his head. "It's alright, Rog. It's not me you should be talking to, though. It's Brian. I feel that maybe this is all a misunderstanding."

Roger squinted.

"Hear me out, love. You and John work great in the studio together. So you should; you're our rhythm section after all. So when it comes to alterations, or little tweaks, it's natural for you to be in tune with one another. But that doesn't mean Brian doesn't have valid points. He's quite forward about them, but I think, darling...he just wants your approval."

The cigarettes left untouched in the pack were tempting against his fingers, but Roger ignored them. He shifted on the step, mimicking Freddie's action from before.

"What're you saying?"

"I'm saying I think he just wants to know you like what he does. That you think he has good ideas and good lyrics and that _you_ like them." Fred said. "But since you got together, he hasn't been getting that. And Rog, John is a big boy. He's not as shy as he once was. He doesn't need you - or I, for that matter - to be his voice anymore."

"That's not-" Roger started, then stopped. Because he did do that. He did exactly that. He wanted to make sure John was heard, and appreciated, and that his comments were noted and considered and followed through with if they were deemed good enough. He wanted what John said to be deemed good enough. Even if that meant going against Brian.

Fred gave him a tiny smile. "You see how he could take that, given everything?"

"I'm not in love with John." Roger said quietly.

"I know, Roger."

"I just wish this all wasn't so hard."

Freddie was quiet for a moment.

"I know, Rog."

 

They sat together until Roger felt he'd taken up enough of Fred's morning, and bid him goodbye and a good breakfast with a hug. Fred held him tighter when he went to pull away, and Roger felt himself relax into it.

When they did pull away, Fred simply patted him on the shoulder, gave him a gentle smile, and went inside.

Roger could hear him talking to John once the door was closed, but faintly.

_"What was that about?" - John._

_"Oh, just Roger being a pain. Shall we eat, darling?" - Fred._

 

Roger smiled to himself, knowing he could trust Fred with murder. He knew - he always knew - but it was nice to hear it. That even if they he and John were together, what Fred was told in confidence would stay that way. It wasn't John's business to know.

He cast a final look to the front door of the home his two best friends lived in, and turned down the street.

His feet wanted to take him home.

He didn't let them.

 

 

 

-

 

 

The front door was locked when he found himself in front of it just after dark.

To be fair, he had said he was going to stay out tonight, and they did usually keep it locked once the afternoon hit, but it felt wrong to Roger. Standing on the wrong side of a locked door without a key.

He braced himself, sucked in a cold breath, and rang the doorbell.

Nothing happened.

"Ah, fuck," Roger groaned, kicking his foot against the door. Their bell was broken - they initially asked the landlady to look into getting it fixed, but she was cheap, and wouldn't settle for sooner rather than cheaper. Their next step was to ask John, but hadn't gotten around to it yet. _Good luck asking now,_ Roger thought bitterly.

He knocked loudly, rhythmically. Enough times to be annoying.

"Bri! Brian, it's me. Can you let me in?"

There wasn't an answer.

"Bloody fucking hell." Roger stuffed his hands into the pockets of his thin blazer, wishing now he had taken that stupid sack, or brought at least a cardigan or something. His own fucking house key maybe?

He was about to turn out into the street when the door swung open, and a dishevelled looking Brian stood in the threshold.

"Rog." Brian said quickly. "Sorry, I was just in bed and I had to get dressed, so I didn't-couldn't answer. It's not- I wasn't- I'm alone."

"It's fine, Brian. I know you wouldn't do that. I don't think that lowly of you." Roger said as he made his way past Brian and into the flat. It was an asshole thing to say, but Roger couldn't help it.

The kitchen was the same as when he left in the morning, dishes in the sink, crumbs on the table. The TV was on in its place in front of the couch, garbling out some news about parliament and a new world crisis. Roger would usually listen intently, but it was background noise to him now.

"I've been in bed," Brian said from behind him. "I didn't expect you back, so I didn't clean. I would've, but I just didn't feel up to it."

Roger nodded once, and felt his pockets for his smokes. Already looking for an out.

"Rog, listen-"

"I think I'm going to have a shower." Rog stated, cutting Brian off whatever well-thought out and revised speech he was about to launch into.

Before he could re-think it, Roger was making his way to the linen cupboard to get himself a towel, then his bedroom for some fresh jocks and maybe some trakkies.

The bedroom was a mess when he opened the door. Brian's clothes were everywhere, pants and shirts and his more elaborate stage-wear strewn across the bed, the floor, kicked into corners. Their collective suitcase was tugged halfway out of the cupboard, then abandoned there, sticking out as if to tell Roger exactly what had gone on.

"It's not what it looks like," Brian's voice came from the doorway.

Roger ignored him, kicking aside the mess to get to his own drawer. He pulled out a fresh shirt, some tracksuit pants and some underwear, then pushed the drawer shut. Brian didn't move when he got to the door.

"It's not, Rog." He insisted.

"It doesn't look like _that_ , Brian. Looks like you were headed off. Can't blame you - said I was doing the same tonight." Roger said, making to move past him. Brian shifted his arm a bit so it was blocking the way.

"Brian."

"Roger,"

"Move your arm."

Saying none of the several thousand things he obviously wanted to say, Brian reluctantly moved his arm so Roger could get past. They flickered across his eyes, each word, phrase, apology. Roger could see them all as Brian's head flicked through them, ticked over them, selected the best from the bunch. He'd seen it many times. He knew how Brian worked. He just didn't want to deal with it right now. Maybe that was selfish. Maybe he was being confusing - or a bit of a toss, saying he was out then showing back up that same night, but fuck it. He lived here too. He payed for the water from the shower here, he wasn't going to pay for it at some cheap hotel just to avoid Brian for the night.

He would avoid him here, too.

 

Roger shut the door to the bathroom behind him without turning around so he wouldn't have to see Brian's face.

Didn't stop him having to look at his own reflection, however.

 

The shower was too hot on his skin, burning tracks along his back and shoulders. The heat hurt, but Roger didn't turn it down. He scrubbed quickly and efficiently with the washcloth, trying to keep his hair out of the spray as much as possible.

He forced thoughts of the first time Brian fucked him in here out of his head - the way he'd leant on the taps trying to keep himself upright and accidentally turned the hot on all the way, stinging at their skin, both of them too lost in what they were doing to stop and fix the temperature. They were both beet red when they saw themselves in the mirror after the shower, and they'd laughed, poking each other's arms to watch the white indents stand out so bright against the pink.

He was hard before he knew it, and that had him switching on the cold immediately.

He let all warmth run out of the water until it was freezing, and he couldn't think, and he'd gone soft again.

It was extreme, but he couldn't bring himself to get off here. Not right now, with his head and heart twisted into a mess that was caught somewhere in his ribcage. He eased the way it hurt to breathe with cigarettes.

He could use one, now.

Roger dried off, dressed, and hung his towel over the top of the shower door. When he got to the lounge room, Brian was waiting for him.

He was sitting up straight on the couch, eyes flicking to but not actually watching the telly. Two cups of tea sat on coasters on the coffee table.

Roger's quest for cigs halted at the sight in front of him.

He cleared his throat.

"So, ah, what's all this then?"

 

Brian half-stood, then awkwardly placed himself back on the couch. Roger wanted to laugh at him. Make a joke, call him an old-fashioned idiot. He remained in place, feeling as awkward as Brian looked.

"I've made tea," Brian said, gesturing to the cups.

"I can see. One for me?" Roger knew an olive branch when he saw one, and he held it gently.

Brian nodded. "Who else would it be for?"

Roger smiled gently and took a seat beside Brian on the couch. He took the tea to the left, noting it was a little cold - Brian must've started making it as soon as he got in the shower - and took a sip. White, two sugars. Same way he had it every time.

Brian copied him, sipping his own tea with his eyes trained on the TV.

Roger felt what Brian wanted to say. What he would've said had he thought Roger would listen - which Roger made clear he wasn't going to. He felt a little bad for it, but he needed this. The quiet, wordless being together. It was always those moments that had him spending more and more time with Brian when they were younger and would study in libraries, or at each other's rooms, and play on weekends even when they didn't have a gig with Tim. He just wanted to be around him, always.

The tea only grew colder the more he sipped at it, but Roger ignored it. He settled back into the couch, making himself comfortable by bringing his legs up and under him, propping his head on his elbow on the end of the couch once he was done with his tea. He watched the TV fade in and out of colour for what felt like hours.

Neither of them spoke. For once, Roger felt Brian understood why.

 

Halfway through the second tea Brian had made him that night, Roger unfurled from his place on the couch and turned to the other man.

"I love you."

He said it suddenly - the words were out before he thought them, but he felt them. They were there all along, waiting until Roger let his guard down long enough to jump out.

Beside him, Brian stilled.

Roger felt it, and it made him tense, too.

"You don't have to say it back. Just want you to know I still do." He said, and stood. "Thanks for the tea."

He walked to the bedroom on shaking legs and felt he might cry.

 

 

Hours later, Roger stirred.

The mattress dipped on the other side of the bed.

Roger was awake, but barely.

He knew, realistically, he should've taken the couch. But he was tired, and he knew if Brian really had an issue he could sleep on the couch himself and they'd just avoid eye contact the next day in the studio. But neither of them did. The covers shifted around, and soon the two were underneath them, lying side by side but further apart than they ever had.

Roger heard Brian mumble something, but he couldn't hear that well, and sleep was lulling his senses back down to naught, so he didn't ask for a repeat. His eyes drooped closed, breath leaving him in a soft exhale as he turned into the pillow.

"Roger,"

Brian's voice was in his ear again, closer this time. Rog shifted away from it, annoyed it kept chasing his sleep away, but it persisted.

"Are you awake?"

Roger grunted. "Of course I'm bloody awake, you keep moving about." His voice was dry and croaky with sleep, but he got his message across.

He felt Brian move behind him, though he couldn't see what he was doing. He hoped it was getting comfortable enough to sleep.

"Right, 'course," He said, and that was that.

The room fell back into silence.

Roger rolled so he was on his stomach, face pressed into the pillow, but his stomach protested and it cause his back to ache, so he turned again.

He felt warm breath hit his face, hot and tickling against his temple, through his fringe.

It was dark, and he couldn't see, but he knew exactly where he was. Close enough to feel the body heat radiating from Brian's chest; his breath hitting the top of his head; the edge of the other pillow on his cheek. He contemplated rolling again, but didn't. It would be making a bigger deal than it really was if he moved now, and the familiarity of being so close was getting to Roger. He didnt _want_ to move - he wanted to sleep and not think about it.

He closed his eyes, and hoped for that wash of exhaustion to hit him once more, knocking him out until morning.

He willed himself to settle, and eventually he did, relaxing deeper into the mattress,  breathing evening out to be deep and steady.

Distantly, he felt something brushing his skin. Heavy limbs draping themselves over his shoulders, a hand coming up to play with the hair at the base of his skull, where it was shortest.

Brian was holding him, he realised absently.

He didn't think about it twice.

He shifted, wriggling forward, until he was snug against Brian's chest, relaxing into the feel of his arms tightening their grip around him. He tucked his head under Brian's chin, hiding from himself in the juncture of Brian's neck and shoulder. He breathed in through his nose, calmed by the scent he'd woken up surrounded by every morning for the past year, and felt at home.

He was asleep moments after.

 

 

 

-

 

 

"Right, so shall we run it again?"

John raised his eyebrows at them, the way he did when he was in a back-and-forth. Ask a question, raise his eyebrows, get the answer. Ask another question.

Freddie peered up from his lyrics sheet - he'd drawn on it so much he was having trouble deciphering what they actually said, which Roger found hilarious as they'd played it so much he certainly had it memorised by now.

Brian spoke up from his place by the second mic set-up, having been unusually quiet as they ran through the 'problem song'.

"I don't mind doing it once more."

Roger met his eyes. Brian just gave him a half-smile and looked back down at his guitar. He was fiddling with the tuning pegs, but Roger knew that guitar was fine.

John looked up at him. "You, Rog?"

Roger poked his bottom lip, a "yeah, why not" gesture, and John nodded in confirmation.

Freddie spoke before he was asked. "Yes, alright. This is all a bit overdone, but if you all insist. Try to keep up with me this time."

He ended it with a wink, and with that, they fell back into their easy banter, jibing and poking fun at each other and letting it be just that. John purposely messed up the first bass moment by randomly playing a new riff Roger knew was actually something he'd been working on, developing to become something more.

Freddie threw his hands up, tossing his papers around the room, and Brian let out a laugh at the action.

"Deaky, darling, what on earth are you playing?" Fred asked.

"Just throwing a spanner in the works. You want to re-start?"

"No! Of course I don't - I want to hear what you've played, once more. I'm going to go into the booth, alright, and you play it again for me." Fred stated.

He motioned for Brian to get out of the way, and he did. When he reached the door, Freddie paused.

"None of you actually want to keep playing that bloody song, I presume?"

Roger shook his head. "I feel we got it by take 7, if I'm honest. I'll have to hear it back again, but I feel like that's the one."

John nodded his head in agreement. Roger could see Brian doing the same.

 

"Righto, play it, John."

Roger looked over at Brian when he spoke. His face was neutral, but warm. He offered that same small smile once more, and Roger felt himself returning it.

John hesitated, peering at Brian through his slanted eyes, brows furrowed enough to tell them all he was suspicious of the lack of argument.

Brian just gestured to his bass with an idle hand. "It's your riff, mate. I can't play the bloody bass."

It wasn't kind per se, but it was enough to have John nodding, dropping his eyes back down to his instrument, and focusing his fingers over the notes.

He played the way he always did - tight, clean and naturally. Roger could see Freddie bobbing his head through the separating glass of the booth. The speakers crackled, and his voice bloomed into the room.

"I love it! Do you have a sound for the rest of us?"

"I do."

John's eyes flicked over to Brian, and the Red Special slung over his shoulder.

"May I?"

Brian paused, then nodded. "Sure."

 

They gathered the bones of the song easily. John had the bass and guitar in his mind and fingertips already, changing bits here and there whenever Roger improvised something on the drums. He sat and tapped out a beat consistently, going along with the original riff John gave, as Freddie rattled off lyrics that he felt might fit with the tune he had in mind.

"What do you think, Bri?" Freddie asked out of the blue.

Roger looked up to see what he was talking about, and found he was holding up his notepad, now filled with little scrawls here and there. He tapped his pen over a certain line in the corner, and Brian hummed.

"I think...if we play it a little slower, it could really work." Brian said slowly.

Freddie cocked his head.

"It's slow to begin with, darling." He said, catching John's eye and winking.

John himself, surprisingly, wasn't saying anything. Maybe it was that he just wanted to hear what they thought. Maybe he wanted Fred to be his voice for the moment. Either way, he didn't seem upset with the suggestion. Just curious.

Roger eyed him cautiously, turning to catch Freddie's eye.

"I reckon that with the slower tempo, it'll let the lyrics sink in deeper, with the instrumental being a solid backdrop rather than the focus." Brian explained. "It feels like a good one for a pure lead; no backups."

Freddie clicked his tongue.

Surprisingly, John was the one to speak up.

"I like it." He said simply. "Shall we have a go at playing?"

Roger raised his eyebrows. "Just like that?"

Three pairs of eyes landed on him.

"You don't agree, Roger?" John asked. It wasn't a challenge. If anything, he seemed confused, and quite possibly a little amused.

Roger shook his head. "No. I mean I do."

Freddie raised an eyebrow.

"I agree with Brian." Roger clarified.

The look on Freddie's face had Roger wishing he'd kept his mouth shut.

 

 

"It doesn't count, you know." Roger said to Freddie once they'd called it a day. They packed up slowly, leisurely, Fred taking time to organise his papers as Brian and John fiddled around at the table.

Freddie looked up from his notebook. "What doesn't count?"

"Me, siding with Brian. It doesn't count because John had said yes, too."

Freddie just shook his head at him, smiling.

"Oh, my dear, that is _hardly_ the point."

 

The door opened, and John kept it held with his foot as Freddie marched through it, stopping only to send a wink Roger's way before he disappeared, John in tow. With him gone, the door slowly swung shut until it clicked into place.

Roger was left alone in the studio.

He sat back on the drum riser and sighed. Then he reached over to one of the mics still set up over his kit, and spoke into it.

"Brian,"

The way Brian whipped his head up, hair bouncing around like a cloud, was almost comical. He was still in the booth, fucking around with God knows what. 

"Let's go home."

Brian didn't respond, but Roger saw the way the corners of his mouth turned up.

 

They drove back to the flat in comfortable silence.

Still without his key, which he figured he must've lost somewhere in the flat, Roger stepped back to let Brian unlock the door and let them in.

Once they were inside, he found himself feeling lost. He didn't even know what he was feeling, just that he was feeling it.

So he did what what came naturally. He beelined for the kettle for a well-needed cup of tea.

He was halfway through making his own when he turned to Bri to ask him if he'd like a cup - though he knew the answer was yes, always - and found him standing in the entry way, watching him with a look on his face Roger couldn't place.

He tilted his head. "You alright, Bri?"

"I love you."

 

Roger stilled.

"I didn't say it back last night. But it's true. I love you so much, Roger. And I know you don't wanna talk about it, so we won't. I just wanted-- _needed--_ to say it back. I need you to hear it." Brian rushed out.

Roger set down what he was holding and looked back up at Brian, whose eyes were wide and pleading, as if Roger would turn him down.

Maybe that's what he feared. Maybe it's what he was afraid of all along. Saying the wrong thing and setting off Roger's quick-fire temper, and not being able to remedy it. Not explaining himself properly and having things fall apart because of it. He talked through every little thing because he wanted to be understood. He insisted Roger do the same because he wanted to understand. It was something Roger hadn't seen for what it was until now.

It was an effort. It was Brian _trying._

 

"Will you say it, then?" Roger asked after a while.

His voice was quiet, so when Brian didn't respond he assumed he hadn't heard him - but then Brian was moving, crossing the space between them with a few short strides and wrapping his arms around Roger's smaller frame.

Roger hugged back fiercely, reaching his arms up to press his palms flat against Brian's back, pulling him in closer.

"I love you," Brian repeated.

Roger let it play over and over in his head, committing it to memory a thousand times over. He mouthed them back, lips brushing against Brian’s collarbone as he wordlessly told him what he already knew.

Part of him wanted to pull back to kiss him - properly, the way they hadn’t done in days - but he didn't want to let go. Not just yet. To Roger, this was far more intimate than kissing. He'd kissed plenty of people in his life - Brian included - but there were a rare few he'd allow to stand in his space like this.

They had a lot to talk about. Conversations to have that wouldn't be so delicate. But he was willing to have them.

Standing there in the kitchen, being gently rocked by strong arms that were so gentle with him, he felt at home.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> .
> 
> leave me your feedback you wonderful people!
> 
>  
> 
> (no, i don't know why they have a balcony if they're on a single storey but they just do.)


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